


Slowly Slowly Through the Fields

by punk_rock_yuppie



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fantasizing, Humor, Masturbation, Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge, No Endgame Spoilers, Other, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 14:34:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18741028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: Bucky is still relearning his body.





	Slowly Slowly Through the Fields

**Author's Note:**

> so because of other projects, I kinda gave up on actually having a mmom fic to post each day, but I do have one more to post after this! along with several other fics I've been too lazy to edit as of late. 
> 
> anyway, have some vaguely set Bucky masturbation; could be seen as post-Endgame or maybe just post-Black Panther. No spoilers ahead, I don't think. 
> 
> big thanks to Hannah for beta'ing, as always!
> 
> enjoy!

Bucky relishes the warmth on his skin.

Some days it still feels like he’s frozen, even if those memories are hazy. Some days he wakes up feeling chilled to his core and swears he can see his breath coming out in icy blue bursts.

But here, and now, he feels the warmth. His left side feels a little light, having left his arm back at the hut. It’s a good weightlessness, though. He’s not entirely sure how far he’s wandered but he has the kimoyo beads if he needs help finding his way back. It’s one of his favorite parts of living in Wakanda—the ability to roam. The freedom. No longer feeling like an animal prowling a cage, instead able to wander where he likes.

Sometimes he goes into the city, but more often than not he loses himself in a sprawling field. Like now, as he reclines back against the tall grass and turns his face toward the sky. 

He’s not sure how long he lays there. He only knows it’s long enough for his mind to go blessedly blank. His body is perfectly warm, inside and out. It’s not really a surprise when his cock twitches with interest; it doesn’t happen often, and Bucky’s not sure if it’s a side effect of the botched serum, or if it’s his own haggard mind, or what. 

He’s content to do nothing about it, at first. He’s content to bask in the sun and feel the warm wind rippling across his face. Even when his erection starts to tent his loose-fitting pants, Bucky could ignore it. 

But, he thinks to himself, he is alone. He’s alone in this enormous field, not another soul in sight, and, for the first time in a long time, he’s happy. 

He slips his hand into his pants and lets his eyes flutter shut against the brightness of the midday sun. 

He doesn’t think about anything in particular as he starts to stroke. The sensation alone is enough; it’s not quite a hair trigger but it’s close, decades spent without touch have left him hypersensitive and he’s only just recently learning to see it as a good thing, rather than a curse.

Bucky strokes slowly and carefully, relishing the friction. He gathers precome against his palm to smooth the way but the slight ache of too-dry is familiar, feels good. Reminds him of being a dumbass teenager, rubbing one out before any of his siblings could catch him, too hurried to grab some lotion or even spit in his palm. 

He can smell open air and the scent of tall grass baking in the hot sun. It’s all comforting and encasing, like a blanket, just this side of suffocating. Bucky pants for air and tastes the sunlight on his tongue and suddenly he’s that much closer to coming. 

He strokes himself faster and thrusts up into his grip. The sensations are electric and sharp; they rocket through him like missiles, wild and bursting before starting again. The feeling guides him closer and closer to the brink and it’s only as his vision starts to go white and his mind starts to go staticky does he get flashes of fantasies. 

They’re all hardly formed, barely more than glimpses into what-ifs and could-have-beens. Things like Peggy’s red lips and skinny Steve’s snow-flushed face; things like wartime Steve, covered in dirt, and Steve before the helicarriers fell, swollen lipped and determined. Things like Sam’s shit-eating grin and T’Challa’s chiseled torso. Things like random hookups from before the war and random, more pleasurable missions after. 

Bucky slams his eyes shut and lets out a single, short grunt as he comes, catching it in his palm. He hisses as his cock pulses and the last dregs of his orgasm rush through him, spurting feebly from the tip of his cock. 

Bucky basks for a moment. He relishes the sun soaking and the still-foreign feeling of wind running over him. He wipes his hand clean on the ground, feeling only a little embarrassed, before he finally sits up. 

He stays like that. He’s unwilling to move, not necessarily because he doesn’t want to go back but because he’d just like to stay here. He doesn’t need the city noises or even the children of the village he stays in; he likes their laughter but he likes the silence more, usually. 

He stays like that until a shadow looms behind him; for once, panic doesn’t start in his chest. Bucky simply tilts his head back and smiles up at Sam. 

Sam’s arms are crossed and he looks caught between disappointment and fond exasperation. “Been looking for you. Shuri’s got some new tech for your arm.”

“Okay,” Bucky says and doesn’t move.

“I’m not carryin’ you,” Sam says. “Even without your damn arm you’re about a hundred pounds too heavy.” 

Bucky only grins. He feels dopey, a bit; free, heart racing in a way that feels good instead of painful. “Sure I can’t convince you to stay out here with me?” 

Sam shakes his head. “Man, I’m starving. I put off lunch to come find you.” He extends a hand and Bucky takes it without complaint, letting Sam help haul him off the ground. “How about you go visit Shuri, get your arm, then we grab some lunch and have ourselves a picnic?”

Bucky laughs. It’s something he does more and more often lately. “Okay,” he agrees. “You’re buying.”

“What’re you talking about? You know they always give you food for free.” 

“You’re buying,” Bucky says again, just to watch Sam bristle. Sam’s hand, still linked with his own, squeezes. 

“C’mon, Tin Man, I don’t got all day.” 

Bucky hangs back a few paces and only starts to walk when Sam stops and shoots him a half-hearted glare. “I’m coming, bird brains, don’t get your feathers in a twist.”

“You’re the worst, man,” Sam says with a smile. As Bucky catches up, their elbows brush.

Bucky keeps his expression neutral, but his voice is unbearably light as he says, “Back at you.” 


End file.
